


i don't even wanna go out tonight, no, i've got you by my side

by bucketofrice



Category: Figure Skating RPF, Olympics RPF
Genre: F/M, and kitchen pipes, and them being idiots, and your fave skating parents being patient yet exasperated, lots of pining, pre-CBC announcement, the comeback
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-04-30 03:51:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14488200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketofrice/pseuds/bucketofrice
Summary: "I don't even need to sugarcoat it, girlNo, I've got you by my side."orTessa and Scott and the great snowstorm of December 2015. And the days that follow it.





	1. i got to know you better on the trampoline; although i am aware i won't know everything

**Author's Note:**

> Title and lyrics are "Sugarcoat" by George Ezra.
> 
> I think I'm beyond the "I can't believe I'm writing RPF" disclaimer, yikes. Please let me know what you think of this, comments make my heart happy.

Montreal is cold.

Well, Canadian winters are cold in general, and he really should be used to it, it’s not like Canton was in the tropics or anything. But this is bad, he’s talking _legendary ice storm of 1998_ levels of bad (and he really would shiver at the thought, except he’s already doing that from head to toe).

He pulls his toque further down his head and zips his parka all the way up, trying his best to raise the collar with his shoulders so it covers his nose. He thinks he probably looks a bit like a turtle, walking down Sainte-Catherines in the middle of December, his neck drawn in and his hands buried deep in his pockets. 

He’s been doing some last minute Christmas shopping, and trying to acclimate himself to being in Montreal. He and Tessa moved a few weeks ago, after one fateful August night spent sitting in the kitchen of her house in London and locking eyes and deciding they were in it for another games, all over a meal of eggs on toast and beer. 

(Eggs on toast because it had been Tessa’s house and her fridge _always_ has eggs, beer because Scott had come over to watch the Leafs, and you can’t watch hockey without beer, come on, her kitchen counter because the best things happen over kitchen counters. He is convinced of the last one, will pull up their exhibition to _Into the Mystic_ as evidence if you ask.

Anyway. Kitchen, toast, beer, Olympics. And then, after she rolled out of bed with a raging hangover and he peeled himself off her couch the next day, three phone calls. One: his parents. Two: her mother. Three: Marie-France and Patch.

Everything had gone surprisingly smoothly after that. Tessa had taken it upon herself to find them neighbouring condos in the city, not too far from the rink; Marie-France and Patch had suggested they start training in late November, not choreo, just skating and getting back into shape. Scott, well, he had to deal with the one bump in the road. Kaitlyn. She took it better than expected, all things considered, but Scott still can’t think about Winnipeg without guilt in his chest.)

Now, though, he’s grateful to open the door to his pickup, grab the ice scraper, and get to work. He gets his visibility back after a few minutes, and slips into the driver’s seat, starting the ignition and turning the heat on high. It’s fucking freezing.

The drive to Tessa’s condo is quiet. The roads are already covered, snowplows at the ready on every street corner, and he’s half impressed with himself that he makes it back with relative ease. 

It’s Tuesday, which means dinner at Tessa’s. Ever since moving, they’ve fallen into a routine. They alternate carpooling to the rink, split their evenings between their respective condos. He cooks, she does his laundry and makes sure he’s stocked up on bathroom cleaner. Scott will forever be the resident spider killer. (Tessa swears she’ll kill any mascot that gets too close so she can return the favour, but Scott laughs and insists he’s not _that_ scared. Secretly, he’s convinced she could actually kill one if she put her mind to it. He doesn’t know whether to be impressed or terrified.)

…

He lets himself in with the spare key she gave him, doesn’t really stop to wonder that this isn’t exactly normal, everyday behaviour for two friends. But then again, when have he and Tessa ever been normal? He shoves the thought to the back of his mind, pulls off his parka and shouts: “Kiddo, I’m here!” down the hall.

“Kitchen,” he hears, followed by a clanging noise, and he’s running down the hallway seconds later, trying not to slip on his socked feet. He doesn’t immediately see her when he rounds the corner, and his heart drops to his stomach. What if something happened—

“Down here.”

Oh. He lets out a sigh of relief at the sight. Tessa, ever prepared Tessa, is sitting cross-legged on her kitchen floor, facing the open cupboard under the sink. She’s partially cleared it out and is in the process of wrapping a kitchen towel around the pipe. _Oh._

“We really should go over to yours too and do this, but I don’t want to go outside again and if push comes to shove you can crash here for a while, right? I mean, the pipes will have to eventually _un-freeze_ so…” She tilts her head over and stops in her tracks when she takes in his expression, part endearing, part exasperated and fully on the brink of laughter.

“What?”

It’s what does him in, and pretty soon he’s crouching down on the kitchen floor, shaking and getting to her eye level. He puts his hand on her shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I thought you tried to cook and somehow got hit by a pan.”

“Ye of little faith,” she says with mock outrage, shoving his chest. “Scott, I should really be offended. I can fend for myself!”

“I know, T, I know.” Her shoulder gets another squeeze but they’re both laughing at this point, at the fact that they’re sitting on her kitchen floor, surrounded by cleaning products, at the fact that they’ve decided to move to Montreal, aka the tundra, and are genuinely concerned that it’s so cold her pipes may freeze. (The second fact will seem _so_ ironic to them in a few hours’ time.)

“Did you still bring dinner?” He almost breaks again at her steadfast predictability, but holds it together, instead pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he gets up to grab the groceries. 

“What kind of partner do you think I am?” _The kind who wishes he’d have come home to their shared apartment to deal with their potential frozen pipes together, really, but he can’t say that. And he knows she won’t. (The thing is, she would, but she’s just as scared as he is, so she doesn’t.)_

“The best.”

“Damn straight. Eighteen years and counting, Virtch!”

He unpacks his groceries — salmon, small potatoes, green beans, chard — and putters around her kitchen like he lives there. His Christmas shopping sits next to his snow boots by the entry. They’ve collected a small puddle of water, which is currently being soaked up by the mat on the floor. He remembered to set them there this time, after one too many lectures about hardwood floors and water stains.

Tessa grabs a pan from a cupboard, he sets the salmon on it, she preheats the oven. While he’s tending to the potatoes and green beans, she chops the chard. He’s about to ask for a spice when she’s already handing it to him, a twinkle in her eye. He just laughs and she plops herself on the stool at her counter, content to watch him work.

When he plates the salmon and she uncorks the wine — no more after the holidays, they know, when it’s back to nutritionist-approved dinners and lots of sparkling water — he can’t help but notice how achingly domestic this whole thing is. How easy it was to fall back into a rhythm with her, on the ice and off it. How it feels like this is how it’s meant to be. 

The comeback hasn’t even started yet and he already feels like he’s won gold.

…

Dinner is a quiet affair. They make conversation occasionally, but mainly, they sit in contented silence, watching the snow fall outside. It’s been coming down all day, and he’s sure it won’t stop for hours.

“Did you get your shopping done?” she asks when they’re clearing the plates. She bumps his hip with her own on the way to the dishwasher, flashing him a smile. It’s one of the first years she’s successfully gotten him to go shopping for presents before December 23. They both count it as a win, and maybe even a pre-Christmas miracle.

“All of it.”

“Even my gift?”

“Even yours. And before you ask, no hints.” Tessa pouts. She’s normally the mature one in this partnership, but gifts of any kind revert Tessa Virtue back to her seven-year-old self, impatient about presents and loathe of any surprises. He knows this by now, knows almost everything about her at this point, so he taps her nose and grins and puts away the last pot.

“Movie?”

“Yeah. But don’t think I’m letting the present thing go that easily. I know all your ticklish spots, Scott.”

He nearly gulps at that, thinks of her _hands_ on his ticklish spots, and then somewhere else entirely, feels his blood pool in places that are highly inconvenient and quickly turns away, pretending to be fascinated by the snowfall. Definitely an avenue he does not want to be going down right now, thank you very much.

Except, it is an avenue he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about ever since they decided this comeback was happening, and he broke up with Kaitlyn and boxed up all his things to move to a province that is predominantly French-speaking. All the feelings he’s ever repressed about Tessa and decidedly non-platonic partnerships have been bubbling to the surface lately, and he’s been struggling to keep it all under control.

He’s been staring out the window for a beat too long when he hears her clear her throat on the other side of the room. “Earth to Scott. You good over there?”

“Great, yeah.”

They end up settling on her couch watching Funny Face, because it’s her favourite and he may or may not have developed a soft spot for Audrey Hepburn’s work over the years. (Not to forget that it won them a world’s title, that too.) They’re side by side on the sofa, her head pillowed on his shoulder, his arm around her. There’s a blanket wrapped around their legs and it’s pretty damn perfect, with the snow outside.

Until something goes pop and her entire apartment falls dark. 

“Shit,” is all he can hear her mutter before she’s fumbling for her phone and turning the flashlight on. Of course, with their luck, she shines it straight into his face.

“Warn a man, god!” He practically jumps, and she quickly averts the light, mumbling “sorry, sorry” over and over.

“It’s okay, kiddo, all good.” He takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. He knows now is absolutely not the time, but he can’t help but notice that she looks beautiful under the soft glow of the light, which she’s mercifully chosen to shine downward. “I guess that’s it for Audrey tonight.”

He takes a glance outside; Montreal is pitch black, not even the streetlights are on. He turns back to Tessa. “I guess that’s also it for you going home tonight.”

“Yeah. Mind if I crash here?”

…

Half an hour later, he’s huddled under blankets on her couch, shivering for the second time that day. The power outage had taken all the heat with it, and Tessa’s apartment is starting to feel a bit like he’s up in the Arctic. 

He can only imagine what she must be feeling like, with her considerably smaller frame and tendency to run icy cold even on normal days. Some mornings at the rink, he swears she’s exchanged her hands for ice cubes. He can’t bear the thought that she’s lying alone in bed, freezing, and because the cold apparently shut off all his brain cells, he thinks it’s a great idea to go to her bedroom to keep her company.

He doesn’t quite make it without crashing into a dresser in her hallway, rubbing his knee and hobbling forward on one foot before finding the door. He pushes it open and approaches the bed cautiously, sitting down on the corner. He finds her shoulder with his hand and notices she’s freezing cold. “Tess, hey, you awake?”

She stirs to face him, looking bleary eyed and disoriented. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he feels like kicking himself for waking her but they’re both freezing. “Scoot over, we’re too cold. Let me keep you warm.” She obliges, pulling up her duvet so he can slide over and wrap himself around her from behind.

This should really be weirder than it is, but he and Tessa have shared beds at plenty of competitions to ward off pre-skate jitters, and this is just like it, he tells himself. This is just a platonic, friendly thing he’s doing for her, because there’s no power and no heat and he’s a good skating partner. 

If he nuzzles his nose into her neck, he’s really just getting heat to all those hard-to-reach places, and if that means he gets a lungful of vanilla and strawberry and _Tessa_ , well, then he’s not complaining. And if she pulls his arms over herself, until she’s tight in his embrace, well, then he thinks she’s just very good at maximizing the surface area he can warm up. And if they both sleep better like this, wrapped up together without any heating, then that’s just because a little fresh air is good for everyone’s sinuses, and no other reasons at all.

And if, when they wake up the next morning, they roll to face one another, and he cups her cheek and runs a thumb along it, and she threads her fingers in his hair, and they lock eyes and move forward and his lips brush hers… well then it’s just a transfer of heat, nothing more, nothing less.

Until she pulls him closer, and he traces the seam of her lips with his tongue, and she grants him access. Until all his thoughts nearly short-circuit at the fact that he is kissing Tessa in her bed and somehow, it’s all he’s ever wanted. “Tess…” he breathes when they finally break apart for air, faces millimetres apart, and he swears he can hear her heart pounding in her chest.

He shifts closer, just by a fraction, their lips a hair’s breath apart. He’s about to close the distance when he hears it.

The telltale sound of the pipes in Tessa’s kitchen sink — the ones they wrapped in towels and left with opened cupboard doors — bursting as the heat comes back on.

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe, you knew the pipes would come back to haunt them. Sorry, not sorry.
> 
> Leave me comments, or come and yell at me on tumblr @good-things-come-in-threes!!


	2. and it's a big jump, big jump, pull yourself together, boy; you haven't got forever, boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two days following said snowstorm, and the incident with the pipes. 
> 
> Our favourite dorks are still idiots.

Three pipes, two days and one frighteningly large hydro bill later, he and Tessa still haven’t talked about it.

They don’t talk about it when they race to the kitchen and frantically try to put the pipes back together, collapsing into a fit of laughter when they’re quickly drenched by all the water. They don’t talk about it when she calls the hydro company and they mop up her kitchen, when he makes some excuse about having to go home and check on his own pipes, just to be sure.

They don’t talk about it for the whole next day — don’t talk to each other at all, actually, which hasn’t happened once since they moved to Montreal — because she says she has to meet with a sponsor and he makes up some awful excuse about a buddy being in town, but he really spends his night with a beer (or three), his couch and a bad hockey game.

And the next day, when they show up to the rink at the crack of dawn, in separate cars, and lock eyes, they don’t even consider talking about it, instead heading in opposite directions to their respective locker rooms.

Even though they haven’t been talking about it, it’s not like he hasn’t thought about it for just about every second since it happened. Hasn’t replayed those blissful minutes on loop in his mind, trying to internalize every millisecond of kissing Tessa, of holding her in his arms, breathing her in and feeling like some missing piece slotted together inside his heart.

He’s subconsciously known (but sure as hell never acknowledged) it for years now: Tessa is it for him. If they ever do take that leap, there’s no going back. He thinks that probably explains his less-than-stellar track record with past girlfriends, the way his chest tightened up any time he saw Tessa hold hands with anyone else. But there’s always been _something_ — skating, an Olympic quad, the atmosphere in Canton, their partnership, being young and naive — holding him back.

Now though, their comeback plan is just getting started, but everything feels different. They’re connecting better than they ever have (and that’s saying a lot, since their chemistry has been _off the charts_ from the get-go, if you take the media’s word for it) and it’s just so much fun, he thinks, skating with Tessa every day again. They haven’t even fully decided on programs for the upcoming season, are really just spending time in the gym and on basic skills, but he’s filled with a kind of hunger he hasn’t experienced in a long time.

He wants this. The comeback. Competition. To stand on top of a podium again. Maybe even that fucking Grand Prix title they’ve never managed to win. (He’s always been a little cocky that way.) To go to the Olympics and show the world that Virtue and Moir aren’t done yet. To get another gold.

And the last thing he wants, he realizes with alarming certainty, standing there in the Gadbois locker room in the middle of December, is Tessa.

He wants her, in every way possible.

Not just in the 'skating partner-turned-family-turned-best friend-turned-casual fuck—

(It happened once, during the Carmen year, because how could it not have? That lift practically _begged_ for it.)

—turned-platonic business partner’ kind of way.

But also in the ‘we’re soulmates’ and ‘you’re my other half’ and ‘I want to grow old with you by my side’ kind of way.

Oh.

He physically deflates after that realization, has to steady himself on a locker to keep from keeling over. This is absolutely not part of the plan, but he can’t help himself from thinking it, letting the thought out from the dark corner of his mind he’d shoved it in years ago. _Compartmentalize, Moir_ , he’d probably said to himself then.

Well, so much for that tactic working now.

The underlying attraction has always been there, as well as the subconscious knowledge that she holds his heart in her hands and he can’t do anything about it. Sure, he’s been wanting to kiss Tessa for over a decade now, has wanted to almost every time they skate and he leans in a little closer than is strictly necessary, every time they hang out on her couch and she rests her head on his shoulder, every time she hugs him and it feels like coming home. So yes, he is very well acquainted with that particular set of emotions.

Eighteen years of being in her presence hasn’t lessened anything, but it’s made him good at coping with the fact that they’re in a sort of stasis. They’ve crossed almost every line possible, but that last one, the big, huge red warning sign, remains. At least, it did until two nights ago.

Yeah. He still doesn’t want to think of the possible repercussions of that.

Because the idea that maybe, he could do something about this whole situation and put himself out of his misery, kiss her already and tell her she’s it for him — well, that bright idea has crossed his mind before. But he’s always immediately shut it down, and never let himself run with it like he did that night, in her bed, in the cold.

“Scott?”

He jerks up at the sound of his name, and turns to see Patch poking his head through the door. To the outsider, he probably looks as neutral as ever, but Scott can tell he’s worried by the way his eyes are just that little bit wider and his left eyebrow is cocked a few millimetres upward.

(Patch is an enigma to most mortals, and Tessa and Scott think they’re pretty brilliant sometimes for having figured out even a few of his tells. By that standard, they suppose Marie-France is superhuman. Not that they needed proof of that in the first place.)

“Yeah, sorry, I’m on my way.” He hastily grabs his skates and sits down to put them on, glancing at his coach from the corner of his eye. Patch just shakes his head by a fraction of a degree and disappears out of his view.

When Scott does make it to the ice, for technical drills with Patch and Tessa, he thinks he’s gotten himself to a mental place where the entirety of his realization in the locker room either didn’t happen, or doesn’t matter. He is the picture of self control, the master of edges, the slayer of twizzles. He’s got this.

Except, he really doesn’t.

The minute he and Tessa lock eyes on the ice, it feels like there’s a live wire between them. Something is crackling, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop. It seems that she doesn’t know either, because she tears herself away from his gaze a second later, like it burned her somehow. This is going to be an interesting practice, he thinks, shaking out his arms to calm down.

Patch starts them with the basics, just building up speed and working on edges and it’s honestly even passable, because they don’t have to look at each other at all if they don’t want to. Which, right this second, neither of them do. They transition to twizzles, and they may not achieve the speed or synchronization they usually do, but it’s easy to chalk it up to having only been back for a few weeks. (Not that the twizzles are bad. They’re pretty fantastic, if put in context. They’re just not Tessa and Scott quality right now.)

Things get properly dicey when Patch suggests they move on to lifts. Every time he’s near her, has to hold her, he can’t shut off the needling voice in the back of his head that’s intent on replaying all of what happened two nights ago, in exquisite detail, and then his mind has the audacity to imagine what could have happened had her damned pipes not burst. The result of which: Scott holds her in the stiffest dance hold he’s attempted since novice level, and Tessa is rigid as a plank, not pliant as she normally is, when she moulds herself to him during every step sequence.

It goes on for a solid fifteen minutes. It’s excruciating. It probably looks horrendous. He really doesn’t blame Patch for shaking his head, turning off the music and saying, “take ten,” before muttering something under his breath in French and exiting the rink to leave them alone with … well, with whatever _this_ is.

He scrubs a hand over his face before skating over to where his water is. He throws a cursory glance over his shoulder, and finds Tessa at the other side of the rink, as far away from him as possible. To say it’s awkward is an absolute understatement.

He decides, probably wisely, not to spend his ten minutes on the ice with her. Instead, he puts on his guards and walks down the halls, taking extra care to admire all the cheesy promotional photos and motivational posters on the walls. He’s never payed attention to them before, but why not start today?

He’s interrupted a minute later by a cough. He turns around and comes face to face with Marie-France, who is sporting her best _no bullshit_ look. For her small stature, she can be intimidating as hell if she wants to. Scott pales a little at the thought that Patch felt the need to look for reinforcements following their disaster of a training session.

“Scott,” she starts. “Patch told me this morning was not … to the usual standard.” He almost laughs at that. “Are you alright?”

The sincerity in her tone and genuine concern written on her face sober him up quickly. This isn’t Marina, he has to remind himself. He doesn’t have to deflect. This is Marie, and Patch, and they call him and Tessa _their babies_ and _the future_ and they want what’s best for them.

“Yeah, we’ll be okay.” It’s a lie, but honestly, he can’t think of anything better to say. And besides, they have to be okay at some point, before the announcement, and competition.

“Did I ever tell you how Patrice and I knew our partnership was more than just on-ice?” Scott whips his head around to look his coach in the eye, disbelief colouring his features. If he expected anything from her in this conversation, _this_ is absolutely not it. He has the instinct to shake his head, that no, he never thought about his mentor and coach developing feelings for his other mentor and coach — and then acting on them.

Unperturbed, Marie continues. “It was when we decided that this thing we created on the ice was too special to just leave there. When we wanted the feeling with us, all the time. And when we wanted to bring the real, authentic feelings from off-ice into our programs.”

She gives his arm a squeeze. “You and Tessa have something special. Even without another layer to your partnership. But maybe, that new layer would only make you better. Go talk to her.”

She turns to walk down the hallway to her office, and Scott just stands there, stunned. After a few steps, Marie turns around, smiles and cheerfully says “Oh, and fix those twizzles; Patch said he nearly popped a vein looking at them this morning!” like it’s any other day and she didn’t just tell him to go after the love of his life.

(He learns, much later, that Patch and Tessa had been having a simultaneous conversation, albeit a much more nuanced and rational one. He wouldn’t hold it above them to have written out a pro and con list in his office during it.)

After a few seconds of stunned silence, Scott turns to walk back to the rink. He’s just gotten Marie’s blatant go-ahead, and he really doesn’t know what to do with the information. Dating your skating partner is considered kryptonite, but it worked for her and Patch, so why shouldn’t it work for them?

He sees Tessa standing at the boards when he gets there, after barely having had any time to mull the realizations of the past few minutes over in his head. She meets his eyes, and he almost winces, but she’s looking at him differently than she did this morning. There’s determination in her gaze, but also wide-eyed curiosity and a tiny bit of hesitation. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

“Patch said we should take the rest of the day off,” she says unceremoniously when he’s steps away from her. “He’s gonna go talk with Madi and Zach, and Marie is going to check on Gabi.”

(Patch had gone to the Grand Prix Final with the Americans, and after a sixth-place finish, they need all the pep talks they can get. Gabi, meanwhile, is still healing from her concussion.)

“Okay.” He’s afraid to say anything more; the air is so thick between them he thinks he could cut it with a knife.

“Lunch?”

“Sure. Mine or yours?”

“Mine?” He nods, wordlessly excuses himself to go take off his skates and meets her at the door. The unspoken agreement is that they need to talk, somewhere private, so he drives them to her condo. It’s these moments when he’s glad they don’t need words sometimes, because he doesn’t think he can string any together over the deafening sound of his heart beating wildly in his chest.

When they enter her living room, neither of them quite know what to do. He scratches the back of his head and surveys her apartment like he’s seeing it for the first time. He can’t believe he missed how white everything is, and silently wonders how she keeps it so spotless, especially when he’s around.

He can see her shifting on her feet, and he thinks things haven’t been this awkward between them in years. Not even when he was dating Kaitlyn. He banishes that thought as soon as it comes, deciding it’s not entirely appropriate for a discussion where he’s meant to be telling the love of his life he wants to be with her, forever.

He’s about to open his mouth and say something, anything really, when she adopts a look of steely determination. Tessa looks like she’s a woman on a mission, and it stops him in his tracks. (And turns him on too, but that’s not the point right now.)

The point is, he has no idea what’s about to happen, so he can honestly say he does not expect her to take two steps forward, wrap her arms around his neck, and press her lips to his.

He’s not about to complain though, even as he feels his brain short-circuit just a little.

All he can do is react, wrap his arms around her back, pull her close and kiss her like his life depends on it. Which he supposes it really does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments on the last chapter, I hope you liked this one as well! Let me know what you think :')
> 
> Feel free to yell at me in the comments, or on Tumblr @good-things-come-in-threes


	3. and if it feels like heaven, well; now it feels like heaven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two days post-snowstorm, some long-overdue conversation.

He’s about a minute into kissing Tessa Virtue — his hands are cupping her cheeks, hers have started to rake through his hair — and he’s certain of one thing: this moment is already ranking up there with the top ten moments in his whole life.

(Also on the list: skating with Tess for the first time, winning the Olympics, becoming an uncle, deciding to come back to competition, he could go on…) 

Back to kissing Tessa, though:

He’s not really processing any of what is happening at this precise moment, except that her mouth against his feels more right than anything has in a long time, that she’s gently tugging at his hair and it’s going straight to his groin, that he’s managed to back her into a wall and honestly the sight of it is one of the hottest things, _ever_. He’s not really processing when she arches up into him and he feels like his knees may give out any minute now, when Tessa makes a little keening noise in the back of her throat and he thinks _this is the way I die, and I’m totally fine with it_.

He does come back to his senses (somewhat, he’d put his mental capacity at a generous 55 percent right about now) when she places her hands on his chest, pushing him back just enough to separate their lips, and rests their foreheads together. They’re both panting like they just skated at the Olympics, and he thinks that’s a pretty accurate analogy for this situation, because it feels like everything has led up to this moment.

“Oh my god, Tess,” he starts, the words tumbling out like the loose change in the dark corners of his skate bag, “that was… Holy shit.”

She meets his eyes and she’s blushing, deep scarlet, but he can see the biggest grin on her face. He thinks it’s matched only by the same grin on his. Her eyes are so, so green, and he wants to lose himself in them, take a dive and explore their depths forever. She giggles, quick and bright, and moves one of her hands to cup his cheek. 

“I don’t know why I did that,” she says between laughs, covering her mouth with one hand like she can’t quite believe herself. He knows the feeling. “Oh my god.”

She pushes up on her tiptoes, just a little, and presses a quick kiss to his lips, like she needs to prove to herself that this is real and won’t disappear from right in front of her eyes.

“That was a good ‘oh my god’ though, right?” He has to check, after eighteen years and what feels like centuries of confused feelings; he needs to be sure of this.

She nods and her eyes are as dark as pine trees. She throws her arms around his neck and he stumbles back from the impact, before pulling her in as close as he can and burying his face in the crook of her neck. He gets a lungful of Tessa, all strawberries and vanilla and a little bit of ice rink and sweat. 

Just like it did two days ago, another piece of his heart slots into place and he feels it grow about three sizes. Tessa just kissed him. _Oh my god._

He still doesn’t know what any of this _means_ , though, so he gently loosens his grip on her and wordlessly prompts her to do the same. When they separate, only centimetres between them, he already feels like he’s oceans away. He takes her hand in his, lets her grab his pinkie, and feels anchored again. One nod over toward the couch, and she gets the hint. 

When they settle on the couch, she swings a leg over his so she can look him in the eyes. He tries as hard as he can to pretend this isn’t affecting him … _physically_. Her eyes flick downward for a split second and oh, she notices, because she has the goddamn audacity to smirk and honestly this woman will be the death of him. 

“So…” he starts, because he’s really not quite sure how to begin this conversation. He knows what he wants the outcome to be — forever, with Tessa, if she’ll have him — but there’s a whole lot of ground to cover between then and now. And besides, he thinks with a puff of pride in his chest, _she started it_ , so she gets to do some explaining of her own.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since my stupid pipes burst,” she says, a shy smile creeping across her face. She blushes and he just smiles.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since Vancouver. _At least_.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He’s grinning now, and he needs her to believe him, so he arches up to her and catches her lips in a slow, languid kiss. She melts into him, braces her hands on his shoulders and when they pull apart, he can see tears forming in the corners of her eyes. If there’s one thing that hurts him more than anything else in the world, it’s Tessa crying. “Kiddo, it’s okay,” he soothes, “we’re okay.”

She sniffles and nods her head, pushing back so she can wipe at the bottom of her nose with her sleeve. He swears it’s one of the most adorable things he’s ever seen.

“So, the pipes were a real turn-on, eh?” He rubs small circles on her hip, calming her, but his face is open, and he knows she knows he’s teasing. But this is him and Tessa, and they always banter. Why should one of the most pivotal moments in their relationship be any different?

“Shut up.” She laughs, whacking him in the chest. “I am _not_ attracted to plumbing.”

“So you’re attracted to me?” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and she cracks up again.

When she leans down, he swears he can feel his heart speed up. “Yes, you idiot. I’m in love with you.”

“Oh my god, Tess,” he can’t even get the words out before he’s pulling her to him and she’s fully straddling him and he thinks he might be in heaven and there’s _no way this gets better_ and then he remembers he has to say it back, so he whispers it, right into her ear. “I’m in love with you too.”

The kiss she presses to his lips is bruising, like she’s pouring all the years of repressed feelings into it, trying to imprint every cell in his body with her love for him. He responds in kind, pulling her closer and running his hands over her back, her ass, threading them into her hair. A low sound escapes her, close to a moan, and he thinks, for the umpteenth time that day, that _this is how I die_.

It’s not how he dies.

(Thank god, because d _eath by sex_ would be a terrible line in an obituary, he thinks. When he tells Tessa this, she bursts out laughing and he pretends to be offended.)

In fact, he feels more alive than he ever has, an hour later, with Tessa splayed across him in her bed. She’s latched onto him, is resting her chin on his chest, and he never expected her to be this clingy. He’s not complaining, though. Not at all.

“T, that was…”

“Yeah.” He can’t help but grin at the self-satisfied smirk on her face, and promptly feels the urge to kiss it off. So he does, because for once in his life he’s actually able to act on those urges, and it feels so, so good.

“I love you.” That’s another thing. He can say that now, and mean it in every way possible. 

“I love you too.” And she can say it back, and mean in every way too.

They just lie there, in contented silence, for another few minutes. He realizes, belatedly, that their breathing has synched up. Apparently the hug has variations, and part of him really wants to know the science behind that. The bigger part doesn’t care though, that part is just so fucking happy that Tessa is warm and pliant in his arms.

“Why now?” He hates breaking the little bubble of silence they were in but he has to ask, has to know why today of all days was the breaking point.

She shifts so she’s looking at him, and she smooths an errant strand of hair behind his ear. 

“Because we skated like shit this morning, Scott.” He can’t help the laugh that escapes him at Tessa Virtue, _swearing_. It’s such a rare sight. “And because I was so tired of skirting that one line we never crossed. And because I wanted to kiss you again after Wednesday morning.”

“Fair point,” he concedes. She is the logical one in this partnership, after all. “I wanted to kiss you too.”

He can do that now, he remembers with a sudden jolt of happiness, so he does, right in her bedroom on a Thursday, at one o’ clock in the afternoon. It feels freeing.

Later, they actually pull themselves out of bed and reluctantly put on clothes. He makes them a very overdue lunch and they both realize that the routine they’ve established in these few weeks in Montreal doesn’t need to be adjusted very much, if at all, to accommodate the addition of kissing. And other things. But mainly kissing.

He realizes then, with a start, that maybe they had been setting themselves up for this, subconsciously. When he floats the idea by Tessa, she laughs, and concedes to the fact that maybe, they were both a little bit blind and willfully ignorant in the lead up to this.

Somehow, they can’t bring themselves to care, because _hey_ , they got there in the end, didn’t they?

When they end up on the couch that night — watching _Walk the Line_ and cracking up about the fact that Reese looks so much like Tessa, no wonder Scott had a crush on her — it’s back in the same positions they were in a few days ago. Except this time, he gets to kiss more than the top of her head, and she can pillow her head on his shoulder on purpose, and after, there’s no question about the fact that they’ll end up in the same bed.

All the time spent in Tessa’s apartment feels a bit like they’re in a bubble, so come morning and her alarm, he’s suddenly startlingly aware that the real world exists, out there. And has two inhabitants named Marie-France and Patch. Who basically told them to _go home and fuck already_ , just yesterday at the rink.

The rink. Where they’re supposed to be in forty-five minutes. Together. After they fucked. And they have to pretend it’s all normal.

He feels himself jolt awake, blindly reach over Tessa, and turn off her alarm. She makes a noncommittal noise into her pillow, and he knows she’s trying to block out reality for a little longer so she can sleep. He chuckles despite himself, feeling a warmth bloom deep inside him that he hasn’t felt for a long time. He looks at Tessa, smiles and feels whole.

She still hasn’t moved so he dips down to press kisses to her shoulder blades, her spine, her neck. He wants to kiss every single part of her but he knows they don’t have time for that. “Morning, T,” he whispers into her neck, and she shivers.

“Ughh.” She lets out a groan, turning so she faces him. Her eyes are still scrunched shut, and his heart warms at the sight. Tessa has never been, and will never become, a morning person. He darts down to kiss her — because he can do that now — and murmurs “I’ll make coffee” in her ear.

Their morning is achingly domestic, and he catches himself grinning almost all the way through it, sneaking touches and kisses every second he can. She’s the same, a smile plastered on her face, and she pulls him in for a deep kiss before they leave, pressing him against the wall. He loves this version of Tessa (loves every version of Tessa, if he’s honest) but this one might be one of his favourites. Bossy, to the point Tessa, who takes no shit from anyone and looks damn good doing it. He thinks he’d die happy if she pressed him up to walls every day.

She breaks their kiss to let out a laugh and he realizes, as his neck flushes a deep shade of scarlet, that he said that out loud. He thinks it’s worth the look on her face, and the follow-up kiss he gets for his admission.

When they get to the rink, it’s early and no one sees them until they step onto the ice. Even then, it’s only Patch, and he shoots Tessa a look, wordlessly asking her what they should do.

(Last night, after some well-deserved _physical connection-building_ — or sex, but he can’t wrap his head around that term quite yet, _sex_ , with Tessa — they had talked. For hours, about everything, about how loving someone for over a decade and not being able or willing to admit it really did fuck you up in so many ways. But how it made them stronger too, and aware of just what they were getting themselves into. And how they couldn’t picture it with anyone else.

Marie-France and Patch had also come up. Because their lovely coaches had basically gotten them in this situation. And being the scarily perceptive people they are, they would surely be able to tell.)

The unspoken conversation results in an agreement. _Let’s do nothing, and practice like any other day_. They skate over to the boards and say good morning to Patch. He quirks an eyebrow but says nothing, instead choosing to run through their planned drills.

Scott knows Patch knows, but he and Tessa choose to ignore that fact, launching into their step sequence drills with a little too much enthusiasm. It’s only when they circle back around to where Patch was standing and see Marie there too, her husband’s arm around her, looking at them like proud parents and maybe going a little misty eyed, that any of them acknowledge what’s going on.

Marie-France looks them both over, down to their joined hands and smiles. “Every layer will just make you better, make you feel more on the ice. Make you better skaters, better partners.” 

He wraps his arm around Tessa’s shoulder, smiling up at his coach. He knows they won’t tell anyone about this, won’t talk about it inside the rink (or outside, except for over dinner, because he knows they’re going to get a full interrogation the next time they all get together, and he’s frankly a little bit scared). 

He knows their secret is safe with them, that the bubble can exist a bit longer. 

Then Marie smirks, gives them a once-over and says “your twizzles were much better this morning. I’m sure you talked about lots of _technique_ last night.”

He feels himself blush, warmth shooting up his neck, and Tessa is giggling nervously beside him. Scratch that, he thinks, _this is how I die, right here, in the middle of the ice._

Marie just lets out a laugh and grins. Patrice smiles and Scott swears he winks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely response to this story, you're all too sweet :')
> 
> Feel free to yell at me in the comments, or on Tumblr @good-things-come-in-threes


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